


Let The Ground Rumble And Shake

by Withstarryeyes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu is a little shit, Confusion, Dizziness, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MSBY, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform, Miya Atsumu Needs a Hug, Mysophobia, Osamu is a little shit, Pre Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Pre-Slash, Pro Volleyball Player Miya Atsumu, Pro Volleyball Player Sakusa Kiyoomi, Protective Sakusa Kiyoomi, Sakusa Kiyoomi has feelings, Scheming Suna, Soft Sakusa Kiyoomi, Suna is a little shit, They're both too emotionally constipated to realize they're in love, Vomit, Whump, concussion, conniving, minor injury, pre-relatioship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:33:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29025777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes
Summary: He’s beginning to feel overwhelmed here, in Sakusa’s lap. The lights ahead are bright, piercing, and his head hurts almost fuzzily. Detached, disconnected. He tries to reach for information, why he’s here, where he’s at. He feels that on a normal day he’d know just from the collection of people. Bokuto, hovering. Sakusa behind him. Hinata in the corner, speaking into Meian’s ear, biting his lip at various intervals. Coach Foster has a phone pressed to his ear. He knows all of these people, sees them in a specific context day after day but what is that?...Or Atsumu brains himself at practice and Sakusa shows that he cares.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 15
Kudos: 423
Collections: ~SakuAtsu~





	Let The Ground Rumble And Shake

There are hands on him. Slim fingers imbued with warmth, probing at the back of his head. They stall there for a moment, pressing into a divot, and he sucks in a breath, shies away at the pain that follows. 

“Tsum-Tsum?” A voice calls, disembodied, from above him. Atsumu can’t place it, can hardly understand the words. The world is dark around him and it’s only then that he realizes his eyes are closed. He peels them open, blinks unseeingly into the foggy air, before it solidifies into a picture. 

Bokuto is above him, nails bitten and hair drooping. Someone is behind him, moving, someone whose hands had so gently cradled his head, had pressed into him, had wondered for his safety with their soft pads. 

“Wha happen’d?” He’s slurring, the words melding together like liquids poured into a basin. Bokuto flinches back. 

“Give him some room,” Coach Foster booms. He hears a dozen feet scuttle backward, the sound like gunshots to his oversensitive ears. He croons, pressing backward, as if he can disappear into the earth, but he’s only met with a body beneath him, with knees under his shoulders and steadying hands pressing into his chest. 

“Miya,” the voice is exasperated but belied by a warm concern. Instantly, Atsumu rolls his eyes up to meet Sakusa’s gaze. 

His eyes are wet, brown in the swirl of restrained tears, and shining against the lights. His face is pinched, his expression ever so visible without his mask. He’s panting, and Atsumu can feel Sakusa’s fine tremors underneath him, his knees are shaking. 

“Omi?”

“Don’t call me that,” Sakusa sighs through gritted teeth. The softness to his eyes doesn’t fade, however. 

He’s beginning to feel overwhelmed here, in Sakusa’s lap. The lights ahead are bright, piercing, and his head hurts almost fuzzily. Detached, disconnected. He tries to reach for information, why he’s here, where he’s at. He feels that on a normal day he’d know just from the collection of people. Bokuto, hovering. Sakusa behind him. Hinata in the corner, speaking into Meian’s ear, biting his lip at various intervals. Coach Foster has a phone pressed to his ear. He knows all of these people, sees them in a specific context day after day but what is that?

“Hey Omi?” he starts. Sakusa looks at him, focus for once only on him. 

His hair is ruffled by lithe fingers and despite Sakusa’s blank expression, Atsumu knows it’s his own. “Where am I?”

Sakusa swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing up, then down, in a smooth movement. “You don’t remember?”

He tries, roots around in his brain for the answer. But it’s a little like setting a volleyball with swollen, un-taped fingers. It hurts, and he doesn’t get very far. “I don’t know, I feel like I should know, but I don’t. Omi, why can’t I remember?”

“You hit your head,” Sakusa answers. His words aren’t sharp, not a sword pressed to the hollow of Atsumu’s throat. They’re soft, cradling, placating. Atsumu feels his stomach drop. 

He flicks his gaze around the gym, loses himself in the sensations. Knees under him, trembling, people speaking, a voice on the phone. Lights, too bright, too white, in his vision. He closes his eyes, swims away, lets himself get pulled back by tapping on his cheek. 

Sakusa is above him. “Omi?” He asks, confused. And so it continues. 

He’s a little more coherent by the time the paramedics come. Sakusa, with the help of Bokuto, has levered him up to sit. Sakusa’s flat palm rests on the small of Atsumu’s back, holding him up. His brain feels reduced to plasma, sitting heavy in the space between his ears, sloshing up against his eyes, creating tension there. The pain, once dulled by his confusion, has ramped up to almost unbearable. His stomach clenches and he leans over, heaving. 

Sakusa hisses but pats his back regardless, and Atsumu thinks if Sakusa is being this nice to him, he must be dying. 

“Are we at practice?” He asks, words gritty with the bile in his mouth. 

“Yes, Miya,” Sakusa answers. Atsumu wonders if that’s the first time he’s gotten his location right. 

“Has someone called ‘Samu?” 

“Do you want us to Tsum-Tsum?” Bokuto chirps. His voice is too loud. Atsumu’s shoulders move to crowd his ears. Sakusa tugs him closer, wraps him up in his warm arms. 

“He’ll worry if nobody notifies him and he finds out I’m in the hospital.”

“I’ll call him,” Bokuto says, voice quieter. Sakusa must’ve glared at him for before. 

Atsumu shifts, pressing his face into Sakusa’s sweaty top. Sakusa huffs above him but doesn’t stop him. He really must be dying. “You don’t have to be mean to everyone, Omi.”

“I’m not mean to everyone,” Sakusa says, the words curved but still not thorny. “Just those who deserve it.”

“And me?” 

“What about you?”

“I deserve it?”

Sakusa huffs again. His breath catches the top of Atsumu’s ears, warming them. “You deserve it most of all.”

A pause, “Then why are ya being nice to me Omi? Is it ‘cause I’m dying?” He tries to play it as a joke, but his brain still isn’t working right. It’s getting the tone all mixed up, forgetting to hide all of Atsumu’s weaknesses behind snark. They come out just as pitiful and wounded as Atsumu feels. 

Sakusa pulls him even closer, rubs his hands up and down Atsumu’s back. “You’re not dying, Miya. You got hit by a volleyball.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says, then loses the train of thought altogether. 

The paramedics are not nice. They are not Sakusa, sitting behind him, a sturdy force to keep him upright. They prod him, shine light in his eyes, ask him questions he feels embarrassed to not know the answer to. Like, who the prime minister is, or what day it is, or what year it is. Atsumu fails their pop quiz miserably. They’ve strapped him into a board, a rigid collar secured around his neck. Out of one of his hands snakes an IV. 

“Can somebody come with me?” He asks. One of the paramedics nods and Atsumu swallows. Before he can ask, Sakusa offers, climbing into the ambulance next to Atsumu. 

Atsumu can’t see the team, can’t see anything really except the ceiling of the ambulance, but he can hear the stunned silence. And Sakusa snaps, “Meet us at the hospital. Someone needs to tell Miya Osamu where to find him,” before the doors to the ambulance shut. 

He thinks this might be  _ something _ . Some confession that underneath their barbs and insults is a wealth of trust. 

Once the ambulance begins to move, however, Atsumu loses all track of time or thought. All he can register is the pain. 

“Only you’d be dumb enough to crack yer skull at volleyball practice.”

Atsumu peers over the side of his bed at his brother. His brown hair is ruffled and there are deep imprints underneath his eyes. In the hallway, Suna is resting against a wall, sneaking looks up at his boyfriend. 

“Can’t help that I’m the center of the room, ‘Samu. Just makes me a target,” Atsumu bites back. At once, Osamu’s shoulders relax and he wanders over to the bed. They don’t do the outward worry, don’t do the explicit brotherly love. Atsumu doesn’t think he’s wired to love that way. Childishly, without intention, without the recognition that love and hurt are one in the same. “I’m okay, ‘Samu,” he says, quietly. 

“Lost half yer brain, ya did, and ya didn't have much to start with.”

“Hey,” Atsumu squawks, but he’s not actually offended. “Did you tell Ma?”

“She wanted to come from Hyogo. Had to talk her out of a panic. You’re ripping this family apart, ‘Tsumu. Ya and yer dumb head of yours.”

Atsumu just smiles up at him. The CTs had come back clean, and they were no longer worried about a brain bleed. He had a moderate concussion, even talking felt like Atsumu was spending a currency he didn’t have. But he was starting to remember things more. Staring to remember Sakusa and all of his kindness. The hospital would release him once somebody could take custody of him. ‘Samu was the obvious choice, but Atsumu didn’t want to be stuck in his and Suna’s tiny, one-bedroom apartment for weeks on end. 

“Think ya could spring me? I want to go home.” 

‘Samu scowled, “Are you allowed to be on your own.”

“I’m an adult ‘Samu, of course I can be on my own.”

“If yer lying to me,” Osamu threatens. He doesn’t get to finish, however, before Sakusa is strolling in. 

“He’s lying. Miya’s going to need a caregiver for a few weeks.”

“Omi!” He whines. Osamu looks betrayed, his eyes glaring so furiously at Atsumu that his cheeks are beginning to sting. Sakusa smirks, the expression hidden by his mask, but Atsumu can tell by the glint in his eyes. “‘Samu I don’t need looking after.”

“Sakusa-san says you do.”

“Where would ya even put me? Yer apartment is smaller than our bedrooms back at Ma’s.”

“I have a couch, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu groans. Osamu’s couch is ancient and sinks so deeply when someone sits on it that they can feel the springs underneath. “And have to listen to you and Suna gushing all over each other? No thanks.”

“Ya can’t go home alone.”

“I’m gonna.”

“Ya can’t.”

Before Atsumu can retort, Sakusa clears his throat. Both him and ‘Samu look over. “I could look after Miya.”

His jaw drops. In his shock, he forgets his usual needling, “Sakusa-san, you don’t have to do that.”

Sakusa shrugs, “I’m offering.”

Suna enters the room, smile predatory, “Well I guess that’s settled.”

Atsumu shuts his mouth, diverts his gaze. His hospital blanket is a pale blue and he winds the fingers in the fabric, back and forth. He’s tired, if he’s being honest, but he can’t imagine sleeping here, out in the open. 

A hand stops his fiddling and he looks up to find Sakusa peering at him, bemused. “Do you not want to stay with me?”

Atsumu shakes his head, “No! No! It’d be great to stay with ya,” he says. “But it’s okay if ya didn’t mean it. I’m sure Bokkun would take me in.”

“Why would I offer if I didn’t mean it?”

Atsumu scowls, feels something black and sticky well up in his chest. “I meant if ya regretted it, I wouldn’t hate ya if ya took it back. I know I’m annoying Omi.”

“You’re annoying all the time, what’s that got to do with this.”

Suna and Osamu have moved into the hallway. They’re flirting, back in their honeymoon phase now that ‘Samu’s ensured that Atsumu isn’t going to die any time soon. “I’ll be with ya for a long time, Omi. It’s not gonna be like practice.”

“Who said I minded?”

“What?” He turns back to Sakusa. His eyes are dark, almost black, but they’re right on Atsumu, scrutinizing him. Atsumu looks at the two moles above Sakusa’s brow instead, swallows down his heartbeat. 

“I said, who said I minded?”

Atsumu feels like someone is playing a prank on him. “Ya don’t like me Omi, even I know that.”

Sakusa’s face scrunches up, almost as if he were frowning under his mask. He’s searching Atsumu’s eyes for something, but Atsumu doesn’t know if he gets the answer he's looking for before he pulls away. “I do like you, Miya. I always have.”

He’s quiet and pliant on the way home. Sakusa somehow manages to pack him into a taxi, Atsumu molded into a stain on Sakusa’s side, his head lolling on Sakusa’s shoulder. Awake, lucid Atsumu would never dare to put this much of his body weight on Sakusa, wouldn’t dare to touch this much. But Atsumsu has only been coherent for a portion of the day, and most of that was when ‘Samnu was around. 

Sakusa leaves him in his apartment as he goes to pack a bag from Atsumu’s place. He’s laying on the couch, a rich brown leather, and breathing out of his mouth when Sakusa returns with a black duffel shoved full of clothes and toiletries. “I could’ve gotten that in the morning,” Atsumu says, from his position as a shapeless mound on the couch. Sakusa doesn’t spare him a glance, already tugging him up and into his second bedroom. The bed is made, the room pristine. Of course it is, it’s Sakusa’s house after all. But it’s more...homey than Atsumu expected. 

The comforter is a light peach on top of cream sheets. There’s a cherry wood dresser and a small, teal clock laying on top of it. A lamp illuminates one corner, next to a small, black reading chair and a tiny, rounded white bookshelf. 

Sakusa is ever patient with him, as Atsumu struggles to change. He even helps pull Atsumu’s shirt on when he stops halfway, panting with pain. After, he looks up at Sakusa, around the room, so warm and inviting, and says, “Omi? Why are ya being nice to me?”

Sakusa stops, looks like he’s replaying something from earlier in the day. “I can be nice.”

Atsumu scoffs, “To who?”

“To those who deserve it.” He’s shoved his hands into his pockets, looking above Atsumu’s head to the cow painting over the bed frame. 

Atsumu smiles, softly, “I think we both know I’m the least deserving.”

Sakusa begins to scowl again, rushing forward to press Atsumu into the bed. They move in silence for a few moments, Sakusa leaving to bring water and Atsumu’s pain pills. He also sets a small cup of pudding, the kind Atsumu really loves, next to it. Atsumu cocks his head, but takes it. 

“You do deserve it, Miya,” Sakusa says, when Atsumu is halfway through his pudding. The words make the dish stick in his throat a little so he swallows and sets it down. “We’re friends aren’t we?”

Atsumu squeaks a little, then crouches down in embarrassment. “We’re friends?”

“Yeah?” Sakusa says, his brows dimpled where they meet. 

Atsumu begins to smile then, “Oh Omi, you really do like me.” It’s lilting, the words a long tease. Sakusa blushes but says nothing, stooping instead to snatch up the rest of Atsumu’s pudding cup. Atsumu protests, but he’s still laughing and Sakusa doesn’t stop. 

When he reaches the doorway, Atsumu collects just enough breath to call out, “Hey Omi?” Sakusa hums. “Thank you." 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I hoped you liked this fic. I think Sakusa and Atsumu's relationship is really interesting and I wanted to explore it here. If you liked this fic and want to see more like it please leave a comment. 
> 
> Best,  
> C


End file.
